


Victory Lap

by Miz_Bluebird



Category: Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Betrayal
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, endorphin rush, narrative convenience, that poor couch, the lightcycles game doesn't work like that, videogame sex pollen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miz_Bluebird/pseuds/Miz_Bluebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winning was pretty much literally intoxicating, and he'd just reset the scoreboard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory Lap

Flynn ditched his helmet and flopped onto the couch with a sigh. His armor retracted and dissolved. Hard angles melted away to leather, let him stretch his legs and roll his neck along the seat back, burrowing deeper into the cushions.

He cracked his knuckles, and felt and saw Clu wince. His program was practically hovering, and had been since before he left, taking point with Tron on an emergency security run: yet another gridbug infestation, this one inside Tron City's central energy plant. He had a new high score, and he'd just saved the entire sector. Life was good.

"That was fast," Clu drawled, turning from the window. The City darkened to nothing behind him as he keyed down the shades. "New record?"

"Of course, buddy," said Flynn. "Dunno how they'll sound without Cetera, though. I haven't listened to it yet."

He’d bribed Clu into minding the store with the promise of Chicago’s newest and a swift return.

"I was talking about you.” Clu smirked. “The way I hear it, you took thirty picos off my best time. And the zero casualty bonus? Nice!”

It was true. His work wasn't work, in here. They appreciated everything he did--every word, every gesture, every success. To the victor went the completed objective, the full sense of reward. Winning was pretty much literally intoxicating, and he'd just reset the scoreboard.

"Congratulations," Clu was saying, the end of a queue of remarks Flynn had half-heard. "Shall I send it to your terminal, for review?"

"Sure." He knew Clu could tell when he wasn't listening, but they worked together so well that he didn't have to pay attention all the time. "And thanks."

"Any time." Clu circled behind him, elbow propped on the arm of the couch. "I know how it is. There's nothing like your name in lights."

Flynn figured, in a warm, distant way, that the euphoria probably had something to do with how directives functioned--with the way imperatives resolved within the system.

“No, really. I appreciate it.”

"My hero.” Clu smirked and inched closer. “So where's Tron?"

"Getting a new arm," Flynn said. "Recompilers are with him now."

"You could fix it." Clu's frown was weird and inquisitive, from that angle.

"And deprive them of their function? They do good work."

"Well." Clu leaned on him, wrapped around him, curled over his shoulders. "When you put it like that."

The touch sparked transfer. A jolt of pings and queries prickled over his skin, hot and frantic, raising goosebumps--and how did that even work, inside a computer. He got an almost overwhelming sense of concern, for him, and for Tron, and an echo of something like panic, for the health of the system. There was an undercurrent of pride, of fierce satisfaction, running beneath and through those, like a harsher reflection of his own buzz.

Now was not the time to mention that Tron had already given him the once-over, or that the triage recompilers were hotter than he'd remembered rendering them, or that things had gotten slightly out of hand. Definitely not the time. Not with Clu’s fingers curling closed over the nape of his neck.

"You almost wiped out, back there." Clu pressed the words to his throat in a harsh kiss. "You could have died, Flynn." 

"Yeah, well, I didn't." He was still loopy with the proof. Clu tugged at his jacket, pulled it wide and slid inward, dodging bold white circuits in favor of soft, dark fabric and the planes of Flynn's chest. "It's fine! I'm fine, Clu, really, come on."

"No. _You_ come on."

Flynn rolled his eyes and leaned into the touch. He felt awesome, and figured he was entitled, and Clu bit his earlobe with a low, short sound that raised more than goosebumps.

"Where is--" Clu hummed, the shirt bunching in his grip as he pushed down, palm flat to Flynn's chest. "Ah. There." It was a sigh against his throat. "Your heart is racing. Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Flynn drew the word out, letting nonsense about differentials and fractals flow through their contact as he relaxed into Clu’s grip. "What about you? You okay?"

He felt, more than saw, Clu tense, sudden and whipcord tight.

"With what?" It was edged in a way Flynn had never heard before. "You mean with Tron?"

And he shoved down with fulcrum weight. Flynn’s disc caught at an angle, jolting current and alarm up his shoulder blades as his ribs expanded sideways under the strain. Flynn’s brain helpfully supplied a working stress equation for the human sternum.

“You thought I didn’t know,” Clu hissed. “You were gonna lie to me.”

"Hey!" The blood in Flynn's body looped southward under the pressure, and meanwhile he’d reached the conclusion _not more than 60 psi_ , and they were getting there fast. His cock twitched, and he hated himself just a bit for that. "No, that’s not—Clu, come on!"

"And what about the recompiler?" Clu fairly snarled it in his ear, fingernails raking tracks in his scalp. "Why wouldn't I be okay? She has great legs."

" _Clu_." Flynn spent the last of his breath making the name an order. "Let go."

Clu jerked back like he’d taken an electric shock and released him.

"Flynn, I didn’t—" He looked away with the studied determination he usually reserved for optimization charts. "I wasn’t thinking. Did I hurt you?"

"I'll live." He breathed deep, ribs aching on the exhale. "It's okay. I'll be okay."

Clu froze, rigid. “But I almost broke you.” 

“Thought I was gonna go the way of a Coke can, for a second, but that’s not important.”

“You’re the Creator! I should never—!” His head jerked on his neck, birdlike, reptilian, his body language utterly inhuman in his distress. “Of course it’s important.”

“Hey.” Flynn shrugged, deliberately. “This boner is important, and it’s your fault, too.”

"I should go." Clu crossed his arms. “I’ve heard enough.”

“Wow, thanks.” Flynn snorted. “If you won’t help, I'll fix it myself."

Clu actually stuttered. Twice. Then he burst out, "Get serious!"

"I am serious! So I’m sore. I’ll get over it.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, palmed himself with a hiss. "I beat my best score—your best score—and I don’t want to waste it.”

Clu groaned. "You are unbelievable."

"That's not a yes." He sprawled, spread his thighs at just the right angle to offer a better view.

_“Flynn.”_

Clu's fingers made bright ribbons of his shirt, pixels flaring blue-white as they derezzed, winking out in curls of ash.

"Total overkill." Flynn gasped, caught Clu's hand and planted it where he wanted, squeezing his fingers down. "It's got a zipper."

"Duh." Clu tightened his grip, smirking at the sound Flynn made.

"Duh, yourself." Flynn arched into another kiss, squinting against the hot neon white pouring from under Clu's jacket, his lapel an enormous elevator stripe aiming straight down. Flynn caught it in his fingers and rubbed. " _Someone_ is lit up like a billboard."

"Me?" It was a whine through Clu’s teeth as he rolled his hips along the back of the couch. "Look at you. You’d black out the whole block."

"Seriously," Flynn pried past his teeth with his tongue, swift and hard. "Quit molesting my furniture and get _over_ here, already."

Clu demonstrated, between kisses and long, slow strokes up Flynn's thighs, that he knew full well what a zipper was and exactly what it was for. The derezz worked just fine until he hit undergarments—a foreign concept that gave him pause—and then there was the matter of Flynn’s boots. They were sterner stuff, a stronger set of surface textures that resisted intent.

"Clu, you know, y'can leave those—" 

But Clu was on his knees and had them half-tugged-off already. He stopped there, took his time, traced the broad bright angles up the backs of Flynn's calves and stared up at him.

"Flynn." He said it abruptly, with a sudden toss of his head. "I want to show you something."

Flynn groaned, shifted restlessly, because hands—hands were totally a valid reason. There were hands wrapped tight around his _circuits_ , and it was no pants o' clock. They were down to his boxers, tent and all, and it was a major crime that he wasn’t out of them yet.

"The blueprints can wait, Clu!"

"Blueprints?” Clu snorted. "I'm a program, not a robot. You’re at the top of the scoreboard! And you’re mine, and you think I’ll show you what I _plan_ to do.” 

Point made, he snaked a hand inside Flynn’s boxers.

"Well, when you put it like that."

And Clu put it like _that_ , even though the preposition was non-specific. He put it like _that_ with both hands, blue eyes going wide in sudden recalculation of the predicted physical changes in angle and size. 

"Oh," he breathed. He hadn’t expected it to lack circuits. He hadn’t expected it to be so warm in his palm. "Oh, man, wow."

Flynn could almost watch the processes ticking over, feel the flow of data through decision gates. 

"You all right?" It took a supreme effort of will to sit up, but he did. "We can stop."

"Huh? Oh, I--it's not that." Clu proved it by mouthing cotton, squeezing gently to catch the fabric in his teeth and licking it down with a will. "We're good! I'm great. I just," he shook his head, "I don't know if I can take this _print_."

"Oh," Flynn said, trying to form a thought, and then, "oh, _oh_ —those. Promotional item."

"Lightcycles." Clu sucked wet fabric into his mouth with an obscenely satisfied groan. "Really? And they got the cockpits wrong."

"Gonna pretend," Flynn shivered, "you didn't just say that."

"They even--" Clu chuckled, low and hungry, a sound that buzzed to the roots of Flynn's cock. "Oh, man. They glow in the dark."

They sparked away to nothing and left bare skin under his fingers. Flynn's whole body tensed. His cock bobbed against his stomach, stiff and red and already shining at the tip with a bright, wet bead of potential energy. 

Clu closed his eyes and fastened his lips over the head. He took his time, savoring the feel of him, the slide of hot wet skin under his lips and tongue as Flynn's breath came quick and hard past his teeth, deeper and faster. He'd remember that forever, that exact sound, and the way he got Flynn to gasp like that.

“Yeah,” Flynn was saying, amid a hundred other half-coherent things, “yeah, that’s it.”

His hands shook, wouldn’t stay fastened in Clu’s hair. Clu hummed around him and rubbed back into the touch with a long, deep suck. He liked it, wanted more, jaws gently strained just a little too far. He pulled back, more for rhythm than for air or rest, and worked his tongue, swiping it along the underside of the head. There should be a junction, just there--and the way Flynn moaned for him, arched until his ass nearly made a right angle to the couch, suggested he'd found it. So he hit it again, pressed up hard with his tongue.

Flynn shifted under him, breathing hard. Clu gulped and followed him, working to swallow his whole length. He gripped what he couldn’t reach, stroked what wouldn’t fit. Flynn’s hips made small, jagged circles against the couch as he thrust up. They were both close.

“So bright for me,” Flynn panted, and it was true.

Clu burned, circuits flaring radium-white. They blossomed hot champagne when Flynn touched him. The air _crackled_ with the difference under the strokes of his fingers. There was nowhere he’d rather be, and there was no way it could last. Clu groaned around him, pulled him in. 

The world literally whited out. Flynn shuddered all over, all at once, and came.

Clu gasped and pulled off him, startled by the sudden rush of wet heat. Some of it stuck to his face. The rest looped wetly and clung to Flynn’s thighs and belly.

"Sorry," gasped Flynn, face hot. 

Clu shrugged and licked his lips experimentally.

"Tastes like you," he decided, and went after the rest with his tongue and fingers until Flynn pushed him away, panting.

"That's--it's too much," he managed. "Like overclocking."

They lay like that for a while, propped on opposite couch corners and curled loosely together. Flynn was just starting to drift off when Clu nudged him a little.

"So, uh. How'd I do?" 

Flynn made several soundless words and a series of incredible faces. _"What?"_

"I've been practicing." Clu shrugged, stretching like a cat in the sun. "What d'you think we _do_ around here while you're gone?"

Understanding dawned: "You mean, you and Tron—"

“Oh, yes.” Clu nodded enthusiastically. “He’s very good at it.”

Flynn groaned. "You're gonna kill me."

Clu laughed at that, strung out and beautiful, dimmed from champagne to a full, bright white. He stroked his own circuits, lazily, watching the energy swell and scatter like heat lightning.

"Wanna go again?"

"Users don’t have a reset button." But Flynn touched him anyway, rubbed broad swatches up his chest, stroking and watching the way his face tensed, the way he bit his lip. "Y’know? We could switch.”

Clu shook in Flynn’s grip, slowly shading a bright, broad violet.

"Could we? Oh, perfect.”


End file.
